


Unearthed Truths (A Documentary)

by cellard00rs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aging, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Parentlock, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's son makes a film about them. It proves to be revealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unearthed Truths (A Documentary)

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this long ago, hid it away, brushed the dust off it and decided it wasn't as horrible as I remembered. Hopefully you will enjoy. All mistakes are mine as well as the original character I cooked up in Alexander.

_A film is - or should be - more like music than like fiction. It should be a progression of moods and feelings. The theme, what's behind the emotion, the meaning, all that comes later._

\- **Stanley Kubrick**

 

Alexander adjusts the camera, frowns, then adjusts it again.

He looks through the lens, scoffs, and runs a hand through his shaggy black hair. He walks to the window, adjusts the curtains then critically eyes each of the light bulbs in the room, starting with the lamp closest to John. He moves it about two inches then returns to the camera and peers through the lens again. John chuckles to himself and turns to Sherlock, ready for an abrasive remark about how long this is all taking only to find that he has dozed off. Sherlock's face is pressed against one side of the winged back chair in which he is currently sitting. John sighs, "Your Father has fallen asleep."

Alexander blinks and looks up, his expression thunderous, "Again!"

John shrugs, "Used to be he would barely sleep a wink. Now it's at the drop of a hat. That's what time will do to you."

Alexander rubs at his face in frustration and John can't help the warmth blossoming inside his chest as he thinks how, every now and then, their son is a perfect combination of them both. Alexander walks over to Sherlock and gently nudges him, "Father, if you would, please."

Sherlock lets out a rather undignified sound as he snaps awake and Alexander does his best to be patient, "We're wasting precious daylight."

"No, what you are wasting is _my_ precious time. Here you have both of us seated near the fireplace, clock and skull on the mantle, armchairs close - the most predictable of all settings and you've been 'adjusting the lighting' for ages..." Sherlock mutters obviously building up for more criticisms but Alexander briskly cuts him off, "Yes, well, now the lighting is right, so we can begin!" 

Alexander returns to the camera and begins filming, "Okay, so, to begin what were your initial impressions of one another when you first met?"

"Why?" Sherlock asks. 

"What?"

"Why are you asking that question?"

Alexander falters, "Because I think it will yield an interesting answer for the audience."

"No," Sherlock promises, "It will not. It is banal and uninspired. This is the first part in your," he pauses a moment, as if struggling, before he spits out the next word, " _documentary_ in which you will be physically addressing both John and myself. You should open with something far cleverer and, frankly as my offspring, I am deeply disappointed that that is the first question you have chosen to lead with."

Alexander stops filming and looks pleadingly at John, "Dad?"

"Yeah, alright. Sherlock," John turns to him, voice low, "We've discussed this before. This is important to Alexander and is a requirement for one of his university courses. Now, your role is small, but pivotal. Especially at this moment, so, if you would, please..."

Sherlock shifts fussily in his seat, eyes on Alexander, "Very well. I will endure. I would, however; once again like to voice that, had you let me look over the questions beforehand, there would have been no need for this pause."

"If I had let you look over the questions beforehand it would have diluted the results," Alexander returns smoothly, "Father, you, better than anyone, should know that a good experiment cannot be conducted without the proper procedures in place."

Sherlock's lips twitch, "You're attempting to console me through scientific logic."

"Is it working?"

"A bit."

Alexander grins, "Look, I know you don't view my documentary as highly as you do my other academic efforts but this means a lot to me. I really enjoy film and-"

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock interrupts with a wave of his hand, "No need to continue along this overly maudlin route. You may start again and I'll do my best to answer the questions, no matter how painfully stupid."

"Thank you," Alexander says sincerely as he goes back to the camera, "But, before I start again, I think it only fair to give you both some understanding as to where I am at present. I think doing so will give you a better idea as to why I am asking the following questions."

He clears his throat, "So far, through montage and previously recorded material, I have covered both your early lives and your illustrious careers. This is followed by an exposé on how Father's process works, various cases, other interviews with friends, family, colleagues and, of course, a quick rundown of the media fervor and internet phenomena that arose throughout it all. This interview will give the audience a nice sense of closure and, after some excessive editing, I'll have it all wrapped up."

"When do we get to see the completed film?" John asks with unmistakable pride and Alexander scratches at the back of his head self-consciously, "Ah, soon...ish? It depends on how long this takes. Now, I'm going to start rolling again. Just answer the questions as honestly and openly as possible."

John looks at Sherlock who sits up; fingers laced together in front of his face as he eyes the camera. Alexander starts filming again, "Right, now, from the off - what were your initial impressions of one another when you first met?"

"My first impression of John was that he was an idiot," Sherlock replies flatly then, seeing John, smiles, "Like most people."

John breathes out loudly through his nose, "Of course."

"But he was a helpful idiot. He let me use his phone, which I needed in order to send a text about a case. Upon further inspection, I also found him to be attractive."

John's eyebrows rose, "You...found me attractive? Really? When we first met?"

Sherlock doesn't answer but, having been together for so long now, his once inscrutable face is easy for John to read, "You're lying."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, yes, you are. You are lying."

"No, John. I am not and I will not repeat myself again. You heard me. I found you attractive," At John's unwavering stare Sherlock bends a little, "Or...at least, aesthetically pleasing."

"'Aesthetically pleasing'? What am I? A duvet? A painting?"

"Regardless, that was a mere superficial inspection. The better and vastly more entertaining observations I made were about your former career, your psychosomatic limp, and your sister."

"Who you thought was my brother."

"Right."

"It was a mistake," John says pointedly to the camera, "He makes mistakes."

"Mmm, yes, I appear to be making one right now." Sherlock grumbles as Alexander asks, "Okay, so, Dad? How about you? First impression?"

John licks his lips, "Yeah, let me think. Been so long now...I do recall being...stunned. He rattled off all these things about me, as if I was an open book and that was...disconcerting. More so when Mike told me he was always like that."

"Mike?" 

"Mike Stamford. You've never met him. He and his wife moved away years ago and we fell out of touch, but he was a nice bloke. Always be thankful to him for introducing us. After all, if that didn't happen you wouldn't be here now, would you?"

Alexander nods, "Suppose not. But we'll get to me in a moment. What was it like? Living together back then in that flat? The now infamous 221B?"

"'Infamous'? That's the word you want to use to describe it?" Sherlock sneers and Alexander rolls his eyes, "First the questions, now my vocabulary. Anything else you would like to take offense at, Father? My jumper? My hair?"

"No. Although that does need a trim, fringe is getting in your eyes."

"Can we continue?" Alexander begs and John takes pity on him, "It wasn't much different than it is now. The space was smaller, naturally, a flat as opposed to this house. And we had Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Nevertheless, living with your Father hasn't changed. It's difficult. Not as nightmarish as Mycroft always believes but, you know, body parts in the icebox, experiments littered about, violin at the odd hours and now there's the bees to contend with."

Alexander looks pointedly at Sherlock, "Oh yes, to that: why bees?"

"They're fascinating," Sherlock says simply and when he does not elaborate Alexander motions to him, "Yes, go on."

Sherlock lets out a derisive snort, as if the answer he gave was more than enough of an explanation and it is an imposition for him to continue, "They're organized, hierarchical, emit a pleasing sound, and produce a useable byproduct. Furthermore, I find keeping them to be far more satisfying than any other diversion I could have undertaken."

"I will admit, the honey has been a nice benefit. But when I suggested Sherlock find a hobby, bees were my last thought. Honestly, I thought he'd take up something more..." John's words trail off as his eyes narrow in thought, "dignified."

Sherlock looks livid at the remark and Alexander bites his lips to keep from laughing, his voice as professional as possible he asks, "Bees are undignified but Father's other pastimes are more acceptable? The earlier mentioned body parts, experiments..."

"Those are connected to cases, so I find them to be more acceptable albeit unpleasant. Besides, he doesn't do that nearly as much as he used to, in light of the fact that we are retired."

"Not retired," Sherlock interjects sharply and John sighs, "Fine. _Semi-retired_."

"No."

"Sherlock..."

"John, we are _not_ retired or semi-retired. I still solve cases."

"Yes, love. _Occasionally_. But, considering we can no longer really take part in the legwork..."

"John!" Sherlock shouts as if what John has just said is highly humiliating. John rolls his eyes, "Oh, come off it! We're in our dotage! Our son's almost fully grown, we rarely leave the house and, more to the point, your eyes are nowhere near as sharp as they used to be. And with that in mind, just where are your glasses? You should be wearing them."

Sherlock's expression is one of pure outrage, "Are you implying that my observations are now _limited_ due to my eyesight?"

"No, your observations are still spot on, but your aversion to wearing your glasses is nothing short of a colossal hindrance. Caught you walking into the kitchen doorframe yesterday."

Alexander finally loses the battle of holding back his laughter and succumbs as Sherlock pouts and reaches into his coat pocket, drawing out a pair of thin black frames which he dons reluctantly, "There. Satisfied?"

"Very."

"And I did _not_ walk into the kitchen door frame...I merely bumped into it."

"Don't see why you're so resistant to the glasses. They make you look positively fetching."

Sherlock blinks, "Do they?"

John gives an affirming hum and Sherlock's pale skins flushes lightly. Alexander, recovering from his laughter, asks lightly, "So, Father, same question. Living with Dad back then and now, any thoughts?" 

"As John said, there is little to no difference. He did, however, omit his own eccentricities. Which, to use his own words, I have to 'contend' with." 

John shoots him an incredulous look, "What eccentricities?"

"Singing in the shower, moving and ruining said experiments, your continued aversion to shopping, not to mention the dog."

As if on cue, a fat puppy waddles up to them and John picks it up, "Shh, don't listen to him, Gladstone. He's just jealous."

Gladstone licks John's face fondly before John sets him down and he trots off. Alexander let out a happy huff, "That'll play brilliantly. That dog is a marvel."

Sherlock rubs at his eyes, "Lord, not you as well."

"Speaking of myself, might as well to move to the most important part of the film - me! Jumps a bit ahead of schedule but, why not? I'm worth it! Tell us how I came about."

John nestles back into his seat, "Ah, well, we decided to have you later on in life. Obviously," he emphasizes this point with a quick tug at his silver hair, "We'd been married for some time and your Aunt Harry kept asking about it. I was, um..."

He falls silent as he starts to look guilty and Sherlock picks up without missing a beat, "John was vehemently against the idea. He felt that his time for children had passed and he kept alluding to my lack of any paternal instincts. I, however, was keen."

Alexander blinks with surprise, "Wow? Really? Strange, seems as if it would be the other way 'round what with," he pauses then rears his head back as a startling idea begins to form, "Oh no, wait, you wanted to experiment on me, didn't you?" 

"No," Sherlock states firmly and John just shakes his head, "No, Alexander, he didn't want that. However, I _will_ say that your cousin Sherrinford had been born not but two months earlier."

"That tired old theory again! I was _not_ competing with Mycroft!"

"Sibling rivalry." John says under his breath and Sherlock glares at him, "It had nothing to do with Sherrinford...though Mycroft did steal that name."

"Thank god," Alexander mutters to himself but Sherlock overhears him, "And what is wrong with Sherrinford?"

"It's an atrocious name."

John nods, "We considered a variety of names - Basil, Benedict, Martin, Jeremy, Peter, Nigel...should be thankful you weren't born a girl. Christ! The names Sherlock tossed about for that! One of them was _Elementary_ of all things! But, lucky you, you were born a boy and we settled on Alexander. Had a nice enough ring to it. Certainly better that...what was that one, Sherlock? Began with a 'Q' or a 'Y'...some obscure name of some obscure scientist you fancied..."

"Better than Hamish." Sherlock offers simply, "That's what John wanted to name you."

Alexander grimaces, "Yeah, okay, but you must have failed on that one somewhat considering my _full_ name is Alexander Hamish Watson-Holmes."

"I'm John _Hamish_ Watson." John points out.

"Yes, you were burdened with it by your parents and in what must have been a fit of pique, chose to burden me with it as well. Bravo. You must be so proud." 

"Well, if _that's_ how you feel about it, then by all means, feel free to pass it on when you have children of your own!"

"I'm not that cruel."

"Oh, I see, good for you, then!" John mutters unhappily, "Not choosing to _burden_ your future child with a name that has been passed down through my family for generations. I'm sure Emily wouldn't mind that name."

Alexander's breath leaves him in a choked gasp before he manages to hiss, "Thanks! Thanks a lot! More work for me! That'll have to end up on the cutting room floor considering Emily has _no_ idea how I feel about her!"

John blinks, stunned, "But...I thought-?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "Bit not good, John."

John glares daggers at him, " _You_ are telling _me_ 'bit not good'?"

Alexander sighs, "You know what? Forget it. Got to get this back on the rails. The question was why you chose to have a child. Father, you said it wasn't because of Mycroft and Cousin Sherrinford. If not that reason then why?"

"I thought it wise to pass on my lineage. True, there were no guarantees that my genius could be passed on genetically but, starting at infancy, there was always the possibility of passing on inherent intellectual knowledge, of creating a well rounded individual who could be the next link in a promising dynasty. Little did I realize I would instead end up with a son who has chosen to squander his brilliance on filmmaking."

Alexander's eyes cast up to the heavens before returning to him, "Father, you've seen my tests. I _am_ a genius. My intellect is on par with your own."

"Yes and yet, like John, you force me to repeat myself. I said both 'brilliance' and 'squander'. I may require glasses but not a hearing aid, you on the other hand..."

"Right, look, I am smart and I am observational and this is my chosen career path. We can't _all_ be consulting detectives...or pirates."

"How many times must I tell you Mycroft lies."

"Uncle Mycroft didn't tell me that. Dad did."

Sherlock's eyes dart to John, who studiously avoids looking at him as he clears his throat, "Okay, um, yes, to me again. I was initially hesitant about the idea of having a child. After all, I already had to look after your father. But between Harry being more than willing to surrogate and Sherlock being...surprisingly sentimental about it, I agreed and I have not once regretted that decision. "

Sherlock mumbles under his breath about how it wasn't sentiment as Alexander asks another question. It's relatively smooth after that, simple questions and answers, not so many interruptions and long discussions until Alexander licks his lips and begins to look apprehensively at his notes, "Uh...okay, we've, uh, we've covered almost everything save, ah, one last thing. And-and this is a bit of a...thorny subject. But, you know, I feel the documentary won't be complete unless we touch upon-upon Moriarty."

Alexander feels his skin heat as he avoids his parent's eyes, his voice as subdued as possible as he continues, "Moriarty and the controversy, the suspected fraud, the 'I believe in Sherlock' movement..."

Sherlock answers with casual directness, "The movement was started by both John and Lestrade. They were helped by a young reporter, Mary Morstan, who later became John's wife."

"Ex-wife," John replies crisply, "Now, she's my ex-wife."

Sherlock nods, "Yes, it was brief. Shame that."

"Shame?" John laughs dryly, "If I was still married to _her_ , I wouldn't be with _you_."

"True, but Mary is...acceptable."

John looks at Sherlock as if he's grown another head. Alexander asks, "How so?"

Sherlock sniffs, "I'm not particularly well-versed on women and have little desire to be. However, there are some exceptions. In fact, before Mary, there was only one other woman worth any regard."

"Irene Adler," John grumbles with disgust, "Odious creature."

"There's no need to be jealous, John."

"I was not then, nor am I now, jealous of _that_ woman." John's tone brooks no argument but Sherlock ignores him, "In comparison, Mary is an entirely different _kind_ of woman. Irene was more...inscrutable than Mary. Mary, for her part, is refreshingly practical."

Now John's rolls his eyes towards the heavens, "That's life for you. My husband and my ex-wife - best friends."

"You are my best friend, John." Sherlock asserts as Alexander smiles, "But you are close to Aunt Mary, Father. She's the only one who'll risk playing Cluedo with you."

John instantly replies 'I've told you not to call her Aunt Mary' but his voice is drowned out by Sherlock's response, "That is because she has capacity of vision. She's fashioned some of our games into her novels. But then, her giving up her career as a journalist to turn to fiction was inevitable. After all, the two are essentially one and the same."

Alexander nods, "Well, Aunt Mary certainly has had her fair share of success. Her mystery novels are current best sellers and her previous work at 'The Sun' was highly regarded. Much more so than that of her former colleague, Kitty Riley, of whom she was responsible for discrediting."

"Speaking of odious creatures," Sherlock scowls.

John nods, "True. In fact, when I first met Mary, I was more than a little unfriendly towards her, my opinion of reporters irreparably tainted. But she was...insistent. And direct. Sarcastic. Rude. Yet somehow gentle, warm...in other words she's a stone's throw away from being Sherlock and Mycroft's long lost sister, albeit the most personable of the lot. Hence why they are all such great 'pals'."

Sherlock hums, "I would rather have her as a sibling than Mycroft. And he would concur, more like than not, seeing as he's always trying to get her to join him at that dull club of his. Not that she ever would. She's far too sensible for that."

"Oh, she's sensible, alright," John remarks wryly.

Sherlock shakes his head, "Still smarting from her nuptials I take it? No reason you should. You moved on, so has she, you're both still friendly... "

"Yes, yes."

"If anything you should take consolation in the fact that you found the perfect wife for Lestrade."

"Yes, okay, but she was _my_ wife, Sherlock. My wife."

"Yes, she _was_ your wife. You had been divorced for the appropriate length of time before they pursued one another."

John scoffs, "'The appropriate length of time'? Please, tell me, what exactly is the appropriate length of time between marriage to divorce to dating and marrying one of your ex-husband's best friends?"

Sherlock eyes him thoughtfully, "She's right, you know. Sometimes you are irrationally tetchy."

"Oh, shut up!" John hisses. 

Their son clears his throat but it sounds suspiciously like he's laughing again, "The movement eventually helped to exonerate you, but the public is only aware of small keynotes that led to this being necessary. Neither of you have spoken, at great length, about either Moriarty or, um, what took place during that period of time when, ah..."

Alexander trails off, not eager to continue as Sherlock's expression grows withering. John is confused at first until what Alexander what was about to say dawns on him and he testily responds, "You mean when your Father faked his death? Or, oh no, wait, I'm sorry - his _suicide_!"

Sherlock takes his glasses off and toss them to one side as he rubs at his face before staring critically at Alexander, "You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

Alexander has the decency to look guilty, "Sorry. Can't be helped. It's important."

"Important to hear, yet again, something we have to hear about every Christmas, every birthday, every anniversary..."

"Excuse me," John interjects, "you faked your _suicide_! It's not like crashing a car or breaking my laptop - which, by the way, he's done both those things! This is - A. Fake. Suicide. You made me think you had killed yourself. For three. Bloody. Years!"

"Could you stop pausing when you speak?"

"N-O." John draws the word out, loud and low and Sherlock mutters something about how he's 'childish'. Alexander's lips purse, "You do talk about it an awful lot, Dad. And it _was_ ages ago."

"Again, faked suicide! Three years! I can talk about it as much as I bloody well please!"

"It's called holding a grudge, Alexander."

"No, it's called you're a bastard, Sherlock! I swore, I swore - I would never, _ever_ forgive him for putting me through that! But then there came Mary, my new wife, all calm and rational and talking me out of being furious..."

"She knew. " 

John pins him with a sharp glare, "Of course she did! She was there! Not long after you-!" he turns to Alexander and more specifically the camera, explaining, "There I was, there I was! The man I loved had just committed suicide-"

"Wrong."

"What!" John barks and it's not even a question as Sherlock deadpans, "You weren't in love with me then."

"Yes, I was."

"No, you were not."

"Yes. I was."

"No."

"Sherlock!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be cross, "John, you fell in love with me _after_. _After_ I came back, after you divorced Mary, after everything. _I_ was in love with you before, but you-"

"Sherlock," John cuts in heatedly, "Don't _ever_ tell me how I felt! Alright? It was _before_! I was in love with you before you...I loved you and there you were on that roof, talking to me, reaching out to me and crying and you-you-you..."

John's words cut off as Sherlock suddenly launches over and kisses him. John is still rigid with outrage but slowly starts to fall apart, eventually kissing back. This goes on for several minutes until John draws away to look at their son who has his eyes anywhere but on them.

"Alexander...did you just film all that?"

"Yeah. Mean, I don't like watching my parents snog but, you know, it'll play well in the film."

John breathes out loudly through his nose, "Okay, yeah, sure. Suppose it will."

Alexander finally looks back and can't help puffing up, "That was golden. Unearthed truths! The audience will eat it up!"

John smirks and looks at Sherlock, "Look at him. Reminds me of you when we'd first show up at a crime scene. Same maniac gleam in his eyes."

"That should also end up on your 'cutting room floor'." Sherlock intones archly but Alexander shakes his head, "Nope. Stays. 'S gorgeous. Now! Considering the awkward nature of this particular period in your lives, I don't feel we need to dig in to it deeply. However, if you have anything you would like to add in particular, I will not object."

"There's not much to add. Your Father felt the need to fake his death as there was apparently no other suitable alternative. Doing so reportedly spared both myself, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson from being assassinated. Moriarty, at least, was dead. Thank god. But his network still needed to be dismantled and Sherlock, in the role of idiotic martyr, decided to handle it on his own."

"We've talked about this..."

John runs his hands through his hair, "Mm, yes, and I have forgiven you. But I still reserve the right to give you a hard time about it. "

"I am aware. You've done so any time someone," Sherlock looks pointedly at Alexander, "has been foolish enough to bring it up. One would think I have suffered enough. After all, how do you think I felt during those three years without you? Not to mention my having to witness your wedding to Mary. Having to be silent as you-"

"Wait, wait, wait," John interrupts, "You were at my wedding? My wedding to Mary?"

Sherlock suddenly grows rigid. Alexander looks between the two of them, completely lost until John speaks again, "You were 'dead' during that time, Sherlock."

Sherlock says nothing.

John continues, voice unnaturally subdued, "Are you telling me that you came to my wedding in disguise? That you came to my wedding and didn't-didn't..."

"John..."

John rises from his seat, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his anger builds, "You never told me you came back. _Never_. You told me that you were gone for all three of those years! That you barely set foot in London and, even when you did, you were never within inches of me because you, and I quote, 'couldn't jeopardize my safety'."

"Yes, John, but..." Sherlock rises as well but John backs away from him, "Yet now, now, you're telling me that you were at my wedding, when I thought you were dead! When I was still..."

John slams a hand down on the nearby mantelpiece, the sound ringing out sharply, "I was still _grieving_ you! It'd been over two years and I was still..."

"John..."

"Dad," Alexander tries softly but John turns on him, indignant, "Is this what you want then? More 'unearthed truths'!"

"Dad, no, I-"

"Turn the camera off."

"Dad-"

" _Turn the bloody camera off_!" John bellows and Alexander does as he is told. John doesn't even look at him as he says far too softly, "Get out. Now."

Alexander does as he's told. He stands outside and waits, heart in his throat, expecting to hear an awful row. Instead he hears nothing. And somehow, somehow, that seems much, much worse.

**********

Alexander let out a heavy breath as he watches his film again. The editing, the sound, the narration, the camera shots and lightning...gorgeous. All of it. But the end...

He licks his lips and rubs at his eyes. The end...

The film is incomplete and, what's more, it's responsible for the current tension that has been humming throughout the Watson-Holmes house for the past few days. His parents still not on speaking terms and all of it his fault. 

"Stupid," he mumbles to himself as he shifts uncomfortably about in his seat and clicks the television off, "Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

He eyes his camera accusingly and then has a thought. He tips his head from side to side thoughtfully before he gets to his feet and takes hold of his camera, his steps sure as he walks to his Father's 'laboratory'. It was, in fact, a greenhouse but they had never grown plants there - instead it had been home to all of his Father's experiments and, what's more, had been his Father's current place of residence since the disastrous interview. Alexander enters to find his Father hunched over a microscope. He doesn't raise his head and Alexander clears his throat. Sherlock scowls, "What?"

"Father, I know I've already told you this but...I'm sorry."

"For?"

Alexander rolls his eyes, "Father."

"Alexander." Sherlock returns and Alexander merely shakes his head before saying, "Look, I've an...idea. I think...think maybe it'll help."

"Mm, yes, you've been so 'helpful' as of late."

"Do you want to hear my idea or not?"

Sherlock doesn't look up, sneering, "You have that bloody camera with you."

"Yes."

"I do not see how the instigator of this dispute can resolve the matter."

"Well, yeah, but that's because you're not creative."

Sherlock did look away from his microscope this time, his look venomous but Alexander was unaffected, "You complimented Aunt Mary for her capacity of vision. All I ask is that you do the same. Think outside the box."

"I am _always_ thinking!" Sherlock hisses and Alexander gives him a timid smile, "Well then, think of this - if my idea works, you and Dad will kiss and make up and live happily ever after."

Sherlock let out a disbelieving snort until Alexander adds sweetly, "And you're exile from the house will be lifted."

"I was _not_ exiled."

"Please, you've been here in the laboratory for days!"

"I _like_ the laboratory!"

"More than your own bed?"

"I rarely sleep."

"I wasn't talking about sleep," Alexander says succinctly and Sherlock's eyebrows rise, "How...lowbrow of you."

"I can _be_ crass. Even though it pains me to do so, because the idea of you two...being..." Alexander's faces scrunches up as he trails off, unable to continue past a muttered, "Gross."

"It's perfectly natural."

"You're my _parents_."

"And as your parents we are unable to engage in intercourse?"

"Okay! And with that..." Alexander shudders, making faces even as Sherlock notes, "You brought it up."

"Just to make a point. And to get you on board. Now, I'd like to drop the my-parents-shagging context and focus on my idea, if we could please."

Sherlock folds his arms, "Very well. What is your brilliant scheme to make John and I, as you put it, 'kiss and make up'?"

"What else?" Alexander asks as he points the camera at him, "The truth."

**********

"What's _he_ doing here?" John grouses as he sits in an armchair facing the television, Sherlock across from him on the sofa.

"I wanted to show you both my completed film," Alexander says simply, "You said you wanted to see it."

"I did," John returns gruffly then softens his tone, "I...do. But," he glares at Sherlock and Alexander sighs, "Dad, please...can we just-?"

"Right. Fine," John mutters and keeps his eyes on the screen, doing his best to avoid looking at Sherlock again, who does very much the same. The awkward (and heated) tension is agonizing and Alexander clears his throat in an attempt to make it at least palatable as he says shakily, "Well, right, okay...um...this is my, ah, first documentary film. It's a little...rough...in spots, but I think it came out nicely overall and uh, well, en-enjoy the show!"

Alexander clicks play and practically dashes out of the room, hiding in a nearby hallway to overhear their reactions. Part of him wants to watch their faces, to observe and catalogue their expressions and body language as they react to the movie but a bigger, larger part of him is riddled with apprehension. This is his _first_ film. And while it certainly caused its fair share of problems, it was still his first finished product, still his work, still...

His heart beat loud in his ears but he heard nothing, not a single thing. Not a laugh, not a word, nothing...and then they came to the most important part of the film and he couldn't help but ease closer, standing in the doorway as the John on screen said, "You were 'dead' during that time, Sherlock. Are you telling me that you came to my wedding in disguise? That you came to my wedding and didn't..."

John dissolves away on the screen, giving way to blackness but only for a moment, the blackness lifting as Sherlock once more graces the picture. Alexander catches John blinking rapidly, sees him, if anything, grow tenser as Sherlock speaks to the camera, "You have begun filming?"

"Yes," Alexander's voice rings out in the background, "Go ahead."

Sherlock doesn't speak right away. He sits on a stool in the laboratory, eyes on his hands, not moving a muscle, several minutes passing and at first it seems as if he will not speak at all until, of course, he does, voice soft, "I haven't...when I was gone..."

He shakes his head, disgust (dissatisfaction) crossing his features as he tries again, "I told John...for years, I've told him that I barely set foot in London when I was 'dead'. And that even when I did, I wasn't..."

Sherlock looks around, almost as if lost and Alexander speaks up, "Father...if you can't..."

"I told him it was true," Sherlock says firmly, resolutely, eyes closed again, lids tight as he forces them shut, "I told him I was a fraud. I thought it would make it easier. I thought, maybe if he hated me...I didn't think I would come back. I didn't think I would _ever_ come back. I didn't think I would ever see him again. I gave him up. I was...there was a time when I," he huffs, "Addiction is addiction no matter what the substance, no matter what and I thought I would die when I stopped using cocaine, but when I gave up John, when I gave him up it was-it was..."

Sherlock rubs at his closed eyes, breaths in deeply, "I did die. Honestly. When I fell, I died. Because I gave him up, I lost him and I couldn't- it was the only thing I could _do_. It was the only solution, the only choice and somehow it was still _wrong_!”

"Father, do you...if you-you need a minute..."

Sherlock looks at the camera and somehow becomes fortified; voice no longer trailing off, "I heard he was getting married. My work with what was left of Moriarty's organization was almost done and I was at a point where I was quite sure I had forgotten him. John, that is. That I was _over_ him. That I was…" he laughs bitterly, "I was so deluded then. So foolish. So young and idiotic and I heard he was getting married." 

"How?"

Sherlock waves a hand, "Doesn't matter. It. He was getting married and I couldn't stay away. I _couldn't_. I _had_ to see. And I researched her. Naturally. I investigated every little facet of her. I knew her inside and out. I knew her whole life. Her habits, her fears, her dreams, her aspirations. I knew what time she rose in the morning, what time she went to bed, her favorite song, her shoe size - everything, everything about her. Every. Single. Thing. And she was...perfect. Flawless. She suited him and he suited her and I..."

He pauses again, eyes back on his hands once more, "I knew...I had _accepted_ my new life. My life where I was alone and over John Watson. My life where I didn't have him trailing after me, didn't have him pestering me about buying milk and pestering me about going to bed at a reasonable hour. My life where I didn't hear his laughter ringing in my ears long after he had stopped, my life where I didn't have him smiling at me when I made an observation he found to be particularly brilliant and I was...fine. I was, I thought I was but, I heard he was getting married and I went to his wedding, I went in disguise, I just...I _had_ to see him, I had to see him with _her_ , had to see him happy, had to see him...just one last time."

Sherlock's hands rub at his face, fingers running through his hair and he makes a sound, something choked, not looking up as he whispers, "She was beautiful...Mary. Beautiful bride. And he was...I never held much belief in wishes. But when I was there, when I was in that church, when they pronounced them man and wife and they kissed...I wished, I wished so sorely that it was _real_. That I _was_ dead. All my life I've had people tell me who I am. Who they think I am. I've been called selfish and unnatural and a monster and at that moment, I was all those things and _more_. I was every horrible thing anyone had ever said. Because I said I wanted to see him happy and when I did, all I could think about was myself. All I could think about was how I would rather be dead than be without him a second longer."

"But you didn't-?"

"No. I didn't," Sherlock admits quietly, "I _wanted_ to. Never in my life have I wanted...I wanted to destroy his happiness. Do you understand? I wanted to _shatter_ it. I wanted to stand up in that church and unveil myself and tear their newly made marriage asunder."

"Why didn't you?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Because of John. Because he had made me...better."

It was silent for a long time. Then Alexander spoke, "Wow."

Sherlock did not reply.

"Mean...I knew, but...you love him."

"You sound quite amazed."

"Yeah, well, mean...you're my parents. I never, um, really gave your...ah, relationship much thought."

Sherlock's lips twitch with amusement, "Yes, well...why would you?"

Alexander clears his throat, "So, ah...think...think that does it then. You...told us why you, um..."

"You can turn the camera off now," Sherlock says lightly and Alexander does so. The film concludes not long after that but it doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter because Alexander sees that John has now joined Sherlock on the sofa, that they are now holding hands, that they are now-

"Ew!" Alexander scoffs as his parents kiss one another tenderly.

John draws away and shoots him a sardonic glance, "Wasn't this what you wanted?"

"What makes you think I-?"

" _You_ made the film, Alexander. I'm quite sure you came up with the idea of the candid interview."

"Maaaaybe," Alexander says, then shrugs, "But it was really Father, who...made it. If-if you know what I mean."

John looks meaningfully at Sherlock, "I do."

Alexander tries not to gag again, "Right, okay, well - I _do_ want feedback on what you thought about the film. You know, what I can improve or change or what have you but, I think, for now, I'll leave you two to-ah-get reacquainted."

"Yes," Sherlock looks at John's mouth, "That would be lovely."

"There's some money on the kitchen counter," John offers, his eyes riveted to Sherlock's face, "Treat yourself to a night out. You deserve it."

"Damn right I do," Alexander mutters as he goes towards the kitchen, "Having to think about my parents shagging again...horrid..."

Alexander leaves and tries not to think about his parents groping one another on the sofa. But then again...at least they did have some sort of response to his film. Even if it was an altogether unpleasant one. Still, considering all the trouble this project had cost him, he decided that it would probably be best if he discontinued making documentaries.

Maybe he could focus on something else...maybe a mystery...

The wheels in his mind began to whir and turn, cooking up various plot lines for a possible noir as he said under his breath, "The game is on!"


End file.
